Everything Always
by LadyLevi
Summary: ‘She has straight lines down her hands and all kinds of compartments in her heart,’ Wanting love is sometimes the hardest thing. Rogue. One-shot


Everything, Always

'She has straight lines down her hands and all kinds of compartments in her heart,' Wanting love is sometimes the hardest thing.

Disclaimer- Would you like me to show you my Sailor Moon pic's? Mediocre at best sweets. Meaning, does not own.

Notes- Bleh, angstyish thing that started off as FFVII then Harry Potter then Twilight then Avatar brfore settling her in all its angsty, wonderous glory. A whimisical story about pony rides and lollipops (if you believe that, just, leave) or you know, that love thing. Could fit in any 'verse really.

Warnings- Swearing and vague-ish illusions to self-harm, sex and the picket fence.

Enjoy your stay!

--

If there was anything –_anyone- _she'd give this up for, it'd be the children.

With their sweet faces and sticky hands and sweat and unconditional love and everything always. She has such a huge family she's always tripping over love, with its rules and phases and relations and there's always so much she just doesn't know what to do with it. So, she experiments, she twists her words the wrong way and kisses the wrong boys and mashes it up into dust and blows really damn hard, hoping that love will turn itself inside out and that love will come back to her, strongly, frantically, 'cause this heartbeat is the only one she has and so far no ones used it right.

And, somehow, she gets by

--

If there's a name for this she doesn't want to know it

Sliding fabric, whispers, haunting shadows creeping across her threshold, stars and moonshine and neon lights and everything always, _again_, everything always. She holds a little longer and then let's go, sliding herself along him and inside him and around him and in every damn direction she can reach because this is just too damn much for her to know.

And he gets it too

Gets that as much as she wants this, everything always, that as much as she wants to be consumed by this too, she can't forget the people who love her. The great pit of northern love she's stirring around in and how much her family's lost to him, to the dark side, to everything always.

To the straight lines on her palms and the white in her hair

Everything always has no exceptions

--

She has straight lines down her hands and all kinds of compartments in her heart

And somewhere between headaches and heartbreaks she thinks she should stop smearing her heart on her sleeve and start wearing it someplace proper, like between her ribs (or legs, or ears or anyplace that'd be easier to hide.) And she remembers, like everything always, the way he'd said 'to write love on her arms' and how damn true it had been then. She remembers wanting him to love her and only her, to stop looking at the browns and greys and every other colour and see green and brown and black black black.

She remembers every moment of every day waiting for that split second she was everything always and not just some loveless second thing with a bad hair do and nothing to show for her years but scars and attitude.

She remembers wanting someone to hold on to in this big loving northern whirlwind

She'd wanted a little piece of herself (the heart on her sleeve, the spades in their hands and that damn luck she was always missing) she could give a way, just a touch, just a breath of herself on someone else. A tiny piece of something she could recognise.

And then she remembers the heart on her sleeve.

(And then she remembers the heart under her pillow)

--

'_You don't know how lucky yah are'_

--

Paper airplanes and the hurt scribbled within

This is what she thinks when she sees it fly onto (notherdesknotherdesktheotheronetheOTHERone) and she feels her pen snap and her eyes go red.

(The heart under the pillow tares)

What's with this boy anyway?

Would staying really hurt so much?

Whose time is he losing by staying here?

(Why couldn't you _save _me?)

How could he-

And...

This is not her.

This is the demon sitting in her heart wishing for everything always without knowing a thing.

--

'But the way I see it, next time I might have to bend your finger back'

(Or break it, break it off)

Fighting words, every last one. Every apostrophe, every simile, every glance, everything always.

And she sips her southern comfort and hopes for porches and fences. Painting them every colour in her head, ice blue, fuchsia, red, whatever she can. And she remembers shutting it down. She remembers the memories, wondering what it would feel like to touch something so damn beautiful, to create anything she wanted, to have everything always.

Growl, roar, home again.

'Can't be too careful anymore.'

'Never trust anyone.'

'They can just take you when your defences are down.'

What the hell is this?

Since when is this everything alw-

Fuck that.

Fuck this

Fuck this shit ass alcohol and those stupid boys she doesn't want anymore

(If only that were true)

Fuck the fence, fuck the memories, fuck _everything always._

She can do this. She can stop needing everything always. She can stop the lines on her hands and the twirling clock and the big pit of love and she can stop the heartache and the headache and-

(Why do her hands shake so much?)

'I thought I hurt enough.'

(And she knows this only when she's too far gone)

And this hurts, always, this hurts, everything. Like always everything, everything always is a nightmare she's never gonna stop wanting.

(Why does her heart hurt so much?)

And godammit she had to get her heart off her sleeve and out of her eyes.

Because its-

Always

Everything

And its-

Everything

Always

(And the next morning she smells like spices and smoke, full circle in her vicious little cycle.)

--

Eh, hi...


End file.
